


Cette folie qui est le nôtre (ce qui est à moi est à toi)

by Syntheticpalindromes



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: First Time, M/M, a bit of frottage, like really vague mentions of it but still, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntheticpalindromes/pseuds/Syntheticpalindromes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Set circa 2002/3 during the early van-days of FOB.)</p><p>Between the two of them, Pete and Patrick share everything. Whether it's wanted or not. They share themselves.</p><p>'“Folie a deux.” Patrick mutters.</p><p>Pete quirks an eyebrow, “What?”</p><p>“Folie a deux. A shared madness.”</p><p>“Oh.” Pete breathes out after a second of silence,'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cette folie qui est le nôtre (ce qui est à moi est à toi)

**Author's Note:**

> Dislcaimer: all characters in this fiction are based upon real people (obviously) but are not true to life representations of them or their relationships as real people.
> 
> Title translation: This madness of ours (what's yours is mine)
> 
> Oh, and I use a quote near the end which is taken from Pete's book 'Gray' so, that's obviously not mine.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah I-...Yeah.”

Patrick smiles, lips strained and insincere, and shifts over in the van, pressing a cool hand to Pete’s brow, “Scared me for a bit there man.”

He sounds a bit like he’s going to cry but he doesn’t.

Pete hums and closes his bloodshot eyes, dark circles dipping below the bottom of them stark against the tan colour of his face and Patrick can’t tell if they’re from lack of sleep or from smudged make-up. 

“You want to go get some coffee?” Patrick keeps his hand on Pete’s shoulder as he asks, other hand loose next to the both of them, “Andy said he saw a sign for a Denny’s a couple miles away.”

Pete nods, eyes still closed and almost falling asleep against Patrick’s side, his hands touching at the younger man’s thighs, trying to scrunch up the material, trying to hold onto Patrick and onto consciousness “Can we get pancakes?”

Patrick laughs, strained and dim, and settles down in the back of the van next to Pete properly, looking at Joe in the front seat who mumbles something to Andy who starts up the van,

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want Petey-Panda.”

Pete grunts and slaps at Patrick’s side, laughing a little to himself, “Ass.”

Pete hadn’t slept for three whole days which astounded Patrick because he was sure he could sleep _for_ three days.

Pete had been antsy and agitated the whole time, lashing out at the band verbally, barking shit at them when they asked him if he wanted to take a nap or, fuck, anything.

He’d crashed pretty bad. 

Literally.

The side of the van had skimmed someone else’s car whilst Pete had been driving down a street in Des Moines, eyes slipping shut and hands going slack.

Andy had jerked awake from next to Pete when it happened and, with some super quick reflexes, grabbed a hold of the wheel and turned them back on track.

Patrick let’s Pete slobber all up against him in the back, touching his thumb to the pulse in Pete’s wrist because he needs to know his heart is still beating because he knows what Pete can get like when he can’t sleep and the pills are getting to him and he’s almost losing control of everything around him.

It sucks.

It sucks and he’s not sure anyone can understand.

But his pulse thrums in his veins and against the tip of Patrick’s thumb, skin warm and beautiful with black ink.

They all settle down in Denny’s, after hefting Pete out of the van and into a booth relatively near the back.

Pete rouses enough to order a large stack of pancakes and lots of coffee. The waitress, who Patrick decides looks a little like a mom, gives him a little once-over and says, “I’ll make sure you all get enough to eat boys, s’alright.”

She smiles and takes down the rest of the orders before walking quickly off towards the kitchens and Patrick misses his mom a little, but ignores the feeling, concentrating on the guy slipping down in the red cushioned seat next to him.

He puts a hand on Pete’s back, “I know you wanna sleep man but, stay awake just enough to get some food and drink, the last thing I saw you eat was that grody ass kebab back in Ames.”

Pete’s hands curl and uncurl into fists at his sides, his breathing becoming labored as he either tries to wake himself up a bit more or control his irritation levels and Patrick can’t really blame him when he punches the seat next to his thigh.

“Trick, shit dude. My heads feeling seriously fucked and my tongue’s ready to fucking shrivel up. I feel dead and dry like a leaf all left out in the cold.” He touches a couple fingers to the side of his head, massaging his temple, “I fucking hate getting like this. Sorry man. Sorry.”

Andy drums his fingers on the table, an erratic beat that fits perfectly with the beat inside of Pete’s chest that’s threatening to give up any second now if he doesn’t calm down.

The drummer lays his palm flat on the plastic surface of the table and sighs, “Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry for feeling something. Emotions man, they’re fucking shitty and ruin a whole load of stuff but man, we love you. Don’t be fucking sorry.”

Joe smiles a little, “Nice motivational speech coach.” 

Andy rolls his eyes but smiles wide, “Just trying to cheer up Wentz.”

The waitress walks back over with four plates of food in hand, steam coming off of them and Patrick can feel his mouth watering at the thought of food. 

Normal food.

Not shitty mac’n’cheese made at 1AM in a microwave of an even shittier motel in the back of beyond.

Pete’s stomach growls next to him as his pancakes and eggs, which apparently the waitress made they make him especially, are placed down in front of him.

Pete squints open one eye, then another, inhaling deeply and almost smacking his lips at the smell coming from the pancakes which are dripping syrup in front of him.

He takes one look at the waitress and swallows as she says, “You looked like you could use a little more sustenance than just some cakes, so I made Chef cook you up something more, no extra cost hon’ it’s fine. Just pains me to see a young man like you looking so down in the dumps.”

The waitress gives him a sympathetic smile and Pete says with his voice half scratchy from the strain and, Patrick guesses, half from the emotion he’s trying to hold down, “Thank you ma’am.” He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, “Means a lot.”

When the waitress has left the boys practically wolf down their meals.

Pete’s hand folds around Patrick’s halfway through the meal and Patrick feels a tiny bit better.

Heart however still jackhammering because he’s never seen Pete get this bad before. 

Sure, it’s been shitty and Pete’s gotten angry and Patrick’s gotten pissy and they’ve been up in arms about the smallest thing, but it’s never been this bad.

Patrick gives Pete a furtive look, eyes raking over his face, taking in everything; the slightly sallow look of his eyes and the paleness of his cheeks that are usually more bronze and full of life.

Joe nudges him, “Dude eat your bacon.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, “Dude. Vegetarian. You have it.” He scoops the bacon onto Joe’s plate and the other guitarist makes a happy noise and kisses the side of Patrick’s temple.

“Thanks man, love you.”

Pete’s mouth twists into an ugly shape around a pancake and his hand shakes a little.

His grip on Patrick’s hand tightens and Patrick feels the joints in his fingers groan in protest.

“Pete, let off a little, that hurts.”

The bassist mumbles an apology and casts Joe a sour look to which Joe smirks and waves the bacon in his face, “Yeah, be jealous asshole.”

Pete thumps his hand on the table and about five sets of eyes in the diner flip to their table.

Joe swallows, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, and holds up his hands, sticky with syrup, “Sorry, sorry. Man, you’ve had a rough day, I won’t mess around with you anymore.”

Pete massages his brow, one hand making a vague gesture, “It’s fine. I just don’t feel good still. Don’t worry. Sorry. I’m an asshole, I know.”

The rest of the meal goes uneventfully but Andy every few minutes gives Patrick and Pete a quick glance over and Patrick can tell without even looking up he’s got one of his knowing faces on, and that kinda pisses him off.

They settle back into the van, Joe driving this time with Andy curled into the seat next to him, head resting vaguely against the fabric of Joe’s jean clad thigh, head warm and light.

Joe winds an affectionate hand into Andy’s hair before telling him to fuck off back to his own side of the van to which Andy responds with a flicked up middle finger and a tiny smirk, nuzzling into Joe’s thigh, on hand curling around his phone the other laying limp on Joe’s knee.

Joe snorts at his friend but lets him lay still there.

Pete and Patrick crowd together in the very back of the van, surrounded by sleeping bags and the odd strapped down amp, Patrick knowing that Pete needs to feel shielded away from everything right now, and that’s okay.

Pete presses himself into Patrick’s chest, shivering slightly against the cold night air infiltrating the van’s various holes and Patrick sighs and pulls as many of the strewn blankets he can around his friend.

Pete mutters a thanks and turns his head into Patrick’s neck, breath warm and sweet, from the pancakes, against the slight flesh of Patrick’s shoulder.

He shudders involuntarily and Pete smiles against his skin.

“I am sorry. About today, I didn’t mean to scare anyone. Least of all you.”

Patrick shrugs, hands shaping around the fabric of Pete’s waist, holding him against him, warmth seeping fluidly between their huddled forms, “Don’t get like that again. I know meds suck and you can’t sleep but you gotta try. Staying up and getting more angry and agitated isn’t gonna help anyone.”

“I’m glad you’re here and all man, to help me out and shit? But at the same time, I feel like me fucking up affects you somehow. You get all mopey and sad whenever I get mopey and sad. It’s like how twins sometimes feel what their twin is feeling, emotionally and physically. I’m not sure I want it to be like this. I like a happy Rick.”

“Folie a deux.” Patrick mutters.

Pete quirks an eyebrow, “What?”

“Folie a deux. A shared madness.”

“Oh.” Pete breathes out after a second of silence, “That’s morbidly romantic man.”

Patrick huffs out a laugh, breath a little visible in the cool air, “It’s not meant to be romantic dude. It’s psychiatric syndrome, it’s not really a good thing.”

Pete shakes his head, “Yeah but, at the same time, you may be the only person who ever understands me.”

Patrick scoffs, “Okay, you’re just spouting emo bullshit now.”

“No man, I mean it, I’ve never felt more emotionally connected to someone than I have with you? You gotta feel it too. It’s like everything I do relates to you. A shared madness wouldn’t be such a shitty thing if I got to share it with you, because by that logic, I’d also share my not-madness with you. Get it?”

“Yeah I...I guess? Are you sure you wanna be mentally connected to an eighteen year old boy though dude?”

Pete grins, “You’re a bitch but you’re my best friend, c’mon.”

Patrick presses a kiss to Pete’s head and yeah, his hair is unwashed and kind of gross but at least now he’s not so worried about Pete. 

Even with the remaining bags under his eyes, which to be honest, could just be smudged makeup, left over from the day but still.

“Thanks for getting me pancakes as well. I didn’t say thank you before. I feel like I should.”

Patrick chuckles, “Dude when the fuck do you say thank you for anything.”

“I’m not an asshole, I know when you say thank you and please.”

“You do not. Your word for please is ‘yo’. Like, ‘pass the butter, yo’.”

Pete giggles, wriggling in Patrick’s lap, “Whatever. Thank you for the food anyway. You know what I need when I’m half-way dead and running on approximately no hours sleep. I should marry you and keep you around forever so I’ll never be sad again.”

Patrick grunts and shoves Pete off of him enough to not have him lying on his bladder, “What if I don’t want to marry you?”

“Tough. I’m fucking sticking around you always. Who else would I share my madness with? We can get some 25 cent rings from the store and have ourselves a wedding out the back of the van. Dirty can officiate.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and makes a noncommittal noise but doesn’t say anything else, just lets Pete burrow into him even further, like he’s trying to push their bodies into one heaping thing. 

He feels his bones groan at the strain of it and feels a weight settle in his stomach because he does feel what Pete feels.

On one hand, he doesn’t want to have to go through what Pete does every time he feels down but he wants to also share everything good and great about their lives. 

He clenches his hand in the back of Pete’s t-shirt, screwing it up, as he realises that, shit.

He might be a little in love with him.

With Pete Wentz. In Love.

Not sex-love.

Love-love.

Like, the love where you don’t wanna look anywhere else because the light might accidentally shine off of something else and into your eyes. 

Love where the only thing you want in your eyes is that other person.

And that person is Pete Wentz.

Pete with his anxiety and depression but also with his pranks and bad jokes.

Pete with his miles of beautiful tan skin and stupidly big teeth.

Pete who once drank his own pee because he thought it would be funny.

And Pete who told Patrick the first day he met him properly that he was something and he was going to make something.

Patrick lets out a shaky breath and Pete cocks his head up towards him, his forehead bumping slightly against Patrick’s chin, “You okay?”

Patrick shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

Pete gives it a moment before replying quietly, “Oh. Okay.”

Before he gets to say anymore, Patrick cranes his neck, rather awkwardly, and slots their mouths together like bad, broken puzzle pieces.

Pete doesn’t make any noise or movement until Patrick pulls himself away, almost painfully.

They both sit in silence.

Until Pete says, quietly, so quietly, “I get jealous when other people kiss and touch you.”

Patrick shifts in his seat slightly, taking this in, but remaining silent.

Pete moves quickly, swinging his leg over Patrick’s thighs so he’s got one on either side and their chest to chest.

Hearts beating in tandem.

Rough and erratic and Patrick is half way to crying.

“I’m jealous because you’re part of me. You’re part of me and I don’t want other people delving into what’s ours. Do you understand what I’m saying Trick?”

Patrick nods fervently, skin feeling prickly and hot under the gaze of Pete’s heavy eyes.

“There’s no one like you Patrick. For me. There’s no one like you. I wanna fucking tear myself to pieces for you and put myself back together in any shape you want because I just want to make you happy and I want you to think I’m a good person even though I’m not and you’re so far from Jeanae. So far from anything poisonous but I know, if I ever let onto you how much I fucking want to crawl inside you, I’d end up fucking you up too. You’ve already got too much of me in you. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Patrick bites his lip and he knows that Andy and Joe can hear them, despite the volume of the radio throughout the entirety of their conversation.

“Pete...Can we not do this now?”

Pete stares at him till he can’t stare anymore, then nods, “Yeah. I get that.”

Patrick shrugs, “It’s fine. But I understand what you’re saying to me. And you gotta know, I would do anything for you. I fucking love you and it feels weird to say it like that but, I’m gonna press it. I love you. And not the way you think I mean it, I mean....big leagues man.”

Pete’s mouth pulls into a small smile, “Big leagues?” His eyes light up, “Sweet.”

He exhales gently, “Patrick. Can I kiss you?”

Patrick flushes for the first time that night and replies softly, almost reverently, “Yeah.”

It’s better this time. They both move together and it’s infinitely better.

Pete for all his talk isn’t a master kisser and Patrick’s a little bit surprised but mostly happy, because he doesn’t feel as much of a loser for not being that experienced when it comes to kissing people.

Patrick is vaguely happy that down in the back they’re shielded from view from Joe in the driving seat, he’s not too sure Joe would be too happy about seeing what was occurring around and on top of his sleeping bag as their kisses become more heated and Pete decides to take off his pants.

Patrick’s hand flies out and grabs Pete’s wrist as his jeans are crumpled on the flooring of the van, Pete left in a pair of faded blue boxer-briefs.

“Pete?”

Pete smiles gently, “Sorry, my legs were getting stuffy.”

Patrick frowns and then laughs despite himself, “You’re a fucking idiot. Come here.”

Pete reclaims his spot in Patrick’s lap and their mouths meet lazily in the middle, Pete’s tongue sweeping over Patrick’s bottom lip until Patrick opens his mouth and Pete licks into his mouth like he’s dying and he is, without Patrick, he is dying.

Or at least, it feels that way.

Their hips find their way to being pressed tight together and Pete breathes hard into Patrick’s sore mouth, breath catching on the wetness of his lips as their eyes flit to find each other.

Patrick keens quietly, rubbing himself against Pete’s crotch until Pete nods and flicks open the button on Patrick’s jeans, pulling his erection out from the confines of his boxers and watching as Patrick’s cheek flare with colour.

Pete whispers, voice full of secrets, “Are you a virgin, Patrick?”

Patrick squirms and tries to buck his hips into Pete’s grasps, “Fuck you.”

Pete’s eyes soften and his hand slips away to tug down his own boxers enough to let his own erection but he can’t bring himself to draw his eyes away from Patrick’s face, even as they press their hips together and Pete wants nothing more than to shut his eyes tight and not have to worry about one sense, and concentrate on the feel of Patrick.

The taste of Patrick.

The smell of Patrick.

He slips a hand over Patrick’s red tinted mouth as their cocks slide hot against each other.

Patrick clutches desperately at Pete’s back and mouths at his hand until Pete removes it, and fixes their mouths together again, this time taking the time to bite at Patrick’s lip, making them even more sore and making Patrick’s whine low in the back of his throat.

Perfectly in tune. G major.

Patrick’s hand snakes down between them, grasping both of them lightly, like he’s not quite sure but after a second his hand working in time with the jilted, abortive thrusts that both their hips are making against each other.

Pete gasps wetly and presses their foreheads together, “Shit.That’s hot. Fuck, you’ve never done this before have you?”

Patrick shakes his head.

Pete licks his lips and rubs his nose against Patrick’s, “I...Neither have I. Not with a guy. Not once.” His stomach twists pleasantly as Patrick chokes on a moan, “Fuck, Patrick, I’ve wanted to fucking do this for so long. With you. Always with you.”

Patrick can’t help it, he yelps out breathily, spilling all over his hand and Pete’s stomach and seeing this Pete’s insides clench and he grinds his teeth as he comes.

They pant in tight proximity to each other, sharing oxygen, for a while before Patrick brings his hand up and flushes furiously at the mess they made.

His tongue darts out and Pete watches, eye large, as Patrick licks away himself and Pete from his hand, his own eyes behind his glasses settled on the flooring of the van to the left of Pete’s thigh.

“Patrick...” Pete chokes.

Patrick shrugs, tucks himself away and then goes to dig through his bag, pulling out a face towel which he chucks at Pete.

“Here, use this.”

Pete wipes off his stomach and pulls up his boxer-briefs, feeling sated and hot inside.

He sighs, happy, and presses as many kisses as he can to Patrick’s face, dotting it with himself.

Patrick laughs quietly, “Dude, c’mon I’m cold and I wanna nap before it’s my turn to drive.”

Pete grins, and looks entirely like himself for the first time that night, and clambers into the back seats of the van, still in his underwear and Patrick has to roll his eyes at that.

He follows and they settle into each other, Patrick’s eyes skipping over to the mirror where he meets Joe’s gaze.

Joe smirks, “You guys are fucking cleaning the back of the bus, I don’t care if you’re in big, gay love or whatever. I swear if you got jizz on my sleeping bag.”

Pete barks out a laugh and Andy snorts awake, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses and glancing back to Pete and Patrick. He throws a look at Joe, “Did they do it?”

Joe grimaces, “They definitely did something.”

Andy gives Pete and Patrick a quick fist pump before laying back down to sleep and drool all over Joe’s pants.

Pete pets a hand down Patrick’s side as the lights of an unknown highway flicker in his eyes, “It’s funny how easy it is to sleep with someone, but how hard it is to sleep next to someone. It’s too intimate. It makes my heart race and pound in my chest. It’s deafening.”

Patrick nods, “I get that.”

Pete ‘hms’ and says quietly, “Me and you...” 

He stops there and stares just beyond Patrick’s head, at the rich blackness of a sky that isn’t Chicago and probably isn’t anywhere else either.

“We’re deafening.”

Patrick fixes a hand around Pete’s, 

“We are. And we're so much more than that too."


End file.
